by Satch Dobrey

If,
one postulates that Truth (with a capital “T”)
is like a syrup
          (dripping from the mouths of politicians)
that they can leave in a canister or remove
          (from said canister) at will,
          drip by drip onto their pancakes
Thereby,
adding a certain sweet tasty
          (alongside their morning tablet)
Then,
it must be argued that,
          If,
          the syrup is poured on the pavement
          (delivered to the people via TV en masse)
          And Not,
          on the johnny cakes,
          truth has “become”
          curb slime with an oily base
          and adheres to the undersurface of the feet
          of the daily workers who stick to their routine.
Though, Not,
to gainsay those who would manage truth a bit,
          (the pundits who reign in thought)
close to their pocket pool way of thinking,
wrapping what we thought we heard
inside a pigeon hole to form a neat,
          perfect packet of shit
that can be taken with dose, by nauseating dose,
          of advertising grist
that subtracts all meaning from the blood and guts,
or, controversy, by whisking us away from
the horror and dust that we are not allowed to see
For,
          (news is anchored to the daily plot)
Thereby,
          (analysis by condition)
serves to cauterize the wound after the flushing out of guilt
so the watchers can go on with their lives.
However,
          If Truth ≥ Faith
          Then Continue,
          Else, GoTo But
those who seek truth as a product of faith
and speak in spic and span sermons using            
the black and white bouncing pill
Where,
the preacher recites and points on cue
          placing the audience behind the eight ball.
                      Since,
                      Armageddon is upon us
                      they are damned on this earth anyway,
                      they might as well be confronted with
                      their demons and confess to their savior
                      that they are weak, much too weak to give a damn
                      about this world where men suffer for no good reason
                      and Truth, as an adjunct to fear, is given a
                      ceremonial from the pulpit,
Thus,
          La mort de la Vérité en grandes pompes
          as the faithful roar their approval with
          eyes closed and arms raised.
But,
          Truth,
          is also a relative term that, as
          the French say, sex is la petite mort
                      (the beautiful agony or the little death),
          during orgasm (or more bluntly “jasm”)
When,
you get that burst of energy inside your peter
          and you flip
your eyelids back and moan and pump forward
until you fall into where you cannot remember what is
                              transpiring
and you cannot envision the face of the loved one with you,
                      perspiring,
you die away from this world,
feinting away from Truth, as it were,
Thereby,
creating a false impression that
cannot be rendered or explained away.
Whereas,
those nay-sayers that often
reach a climatic moment of truth before they can exhale,
accusing the vampire who sucks them dry,
turns them into an ape on all fours
Thereby,
encapsulating the habit of putting the cart before the horse.
          However,
          the French also say that eating snails makes la petite mort
          more agonizingly brilliant,
                      Yet,
                      which in an absolute form is a
                      Truism
                      meant to purify and stiffen
                      the will, but, just as a will is written before one dies
                      (with the ultimate destination and purpose that of death itself)
Is, This (in its physical nature)
          Or, Is This Not,
          a symptom that eating the slimy snail
          (as opposed to slurping curb slime)
          provides the impetus needed to
          succeed in stemming the tide?
                      But,
                       relatively speaking, how could this be?
                      Is the necessary attendant to Truth
                      the constipation of sexual restraint?
Is Truth,
by its psychological nature
impotent in the face of expression?
          Or,
          can truth be spoken as a laxative
          and thereby become the enemy of prolonged sexual
          pleasure?
                      Unless, Truth ≥ Faith,
                              so we take the preacher at his word
                              while swaying gently to the foray of
                              the ribbon clad traffic jam and
                              its insistence on the status quo, slogans
                              to surge and pump more gas
                              at lower prices and while pumping
                              in bed like nothing else matters,
                              without moving,
                              support the troops
for freedom
Is Not
          free in the homeland
          and a vote for peace is a vote for terror,
          Unpatriotic to boot,
          in order to supply the demand
          for the oil that keeps the globe moving:
                      We Hereby,
                      stamp out death as an antonym for
                       La Belle France
                      and dispel once and for all the
                      notion that Truth is free and
                      open to the pubic.

 

[Satch Dobrey has a B.A. in English from Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville and an M.A. in International Affairs from Washington University in St. Louis. Recent poetry appears in Bluestem (EIU), Rampike (Ontario, Canada), Painters and Poets and Blotterature.  Fiction appears in Tribe Magazine out of Plymouth, England and is forthcoming in Blue Fifth Review. The author currently works as a librarian/freelance writer.]

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